Piano
by WorkWithMeHere
Summary: Soda thinks it's stupid that no one touches the piano.


**Disclaimer: Borrowed characters.**

He didn't like looking at the piano. He didn't like looking at the pictures on top of it. Ever since they died, the piano became like a shrine. Something to look at but never ever touch. It was there in memory, not in good taste.

Soda wanted to play the piano. Wanted to move his fingers across its keys. But it was ridiculous. It was something to look at. Not touch. Besides he doubts he even remembers the little their mother had taught him. He hopes he hasn't forgotten. He says a silent prayer that he has held on to that knowledge better than who the 13th president was, or anything else school related. But, there's no way to check. No one ever touches the piano.

Even Darry, the cleaning freak that he is, allowed the piano to be overlooked. Layers of dust rested atop the lid. A thin film covered the picture frames that have been there so long, the seemed welded into it in Soda's opinion. One of Soda, Darry and Ponyboy, years and years ago, at a state fair. Another of the entire gang. Johnny and Dallas forever frozen at an age of innocence and trouble. And a third of their mom and dad taken a year before they died.

Soda thinks it's stupid that no one touches the piano. That no one tries to play it. Ponyboy had been the best at it, understanding and comprehending the squiggles and lines that directed your fingers where to go. But the guys had made fun of him, claiming the piano as a girlie instrument. So Pony didn't play as much. But Soda remembers catching him sitting at the bench next to their mother watching intently as she explained the importance of the smaller, black keys.

Soda had been good at piano for the week it held his interest. He never could follow the music on paper, but instead could watch his mother play, follow along with his eyes, ears, and eventually his fingers, playing what he had seen, tweaking it to add his own flavor. His father use to say that Sodapop "carbonated" everything he touched.

Now no one plays. That big stupid piano sits there. Taking up space. Soda scowls at it. Angry it has made him remember things he rather wouldn't, getting caught up in nostalgia that he doesn't need right now. Soda rarely gets angry enough to act on his emotions but right now he is very tempted to get Darry's old baseball bat and go to town on it.

The thought makes Soda smile; he imagines Darry's face if he were to come home to splintered wood covering the living room. For some reason, Soda doubts his infectious smile would help him get outta that one.

So because Soda cannot hammer away at the smug piano, he touches it. Swipes a finger across the lid and makes a face at the dust his finger comes back with. Even though Soda's never been one to take initiative in household chores, he has the sudden urge to dust. To clean the piano from top to bottom. He needs to prove to the piano he's not afraid of it. Not afraid of the memories it contains. And although Soda has never been a good liar, he believes it. Believes he's not afraid. That the memories cannot hurt him in any way.

Soda scrubs. He rubs and polishes and shines, which makes him sneeze. But that won't defeat him. And it doesn't. When he is done Soda stares.

The piano is clean. Well, clean in Soda's standards, although he's sure Darry would have done a better job. Soda thought that cleaning the piano would mean he won. Proof to himself and the world he was not afraid, not intimidated by the piano.

Yet it was like the piano had pulled a fast one. Now that it was all cleaned up, it looked even more magnificent. Snobby, holier-than-thou. Like a Soc. Soda did not like that kind of attitude coming from an inanimate object, thank you very much.

Not being able to let the piano get away with its insolence (and since the baseball idea was already deemed unacceptable) Soda felt as if there was one thing left for him to do.

Hesitantly, he sits in front of the piano. Slowly, he pushes down on a key. Then another. And he lets his memory and fingers do the rest of the work. It is as if he's sitting there, next to his mom watching as her fingers glide right to left, leaving notes for the entire house to hear, to feel.

Soda stops. Breaks off mid-song and stares at his hands. They're shaking. He stares back at the piano and can only make out the blurred outlines. He swallows harshly and blinks rapidly.

He remembered how to play.

It wasn't perfect, and there were many mistakes that would cause other people to cringe.

It was "carbonated".

The piano was not quite as formidable now. Instead it looked indulgent, forgiving Soda for ignoring it for so long.

Soda smiles. He always thought it was stupid no one touched the piano.


End file.
